Now
by babygrrl
Summary: The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Sometimes, the road to love is paved with hell.


**Author's Note:  **This was written in an airplane on the way home from my sister's wedding in Hawaii, which may account for the hopeless romanticism.  Sometimes, I am indeed a sap.  Dedicated with affection to the members of the **FB Harem and to my co-mistress **Ms. Scribe**.  Perhaps next time I can bring back a coconut shell bra.**

Hermione sat on the hill and watched the sunset.  The sky was washed with orange and gold and purple, and the distant trees were a smudge of dark blue.  It was all quite magnificent, but the people at the house below were otherwise occupied.

Strains of lively music drifted upward and even from here, she could smell the delicious scent of roast and pies and other delicacies presided over by the formidable Molly Weasley.  Children of various ages darted through the garden, shouting furiously as they engaged in rather serious warfare.  With dinner nearly an hour away, the casualties were mounting fast.  Hermione herself had been captured twice and beheaded once before she had made her escape.

As she walked, she noticed a patch of low-lying plants with dark green leaves and small white blossoms.  To her delight, she realized that they were wild strawberries – she always had done well in Herbology – and quickly picked a handful, gathering them in the folds of her skirt.  Now she sat with her back against a large oak, munching contentedly as the sun slipped lower and lower.

"I thought I'd find you here."  Harry spoke quietly so as not to startle her.

At the sound of his voice, Hermione turned and smiled.  She patted the ground beside her.  "The very person I was hoping for.  Pull up some grass.  You're missing the show."

Grinning, he flopped down next to her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back against the tree trunk.  "You're right.  The view here is spectacular."

"I was talking about the sunset, Harry."

"I wasn't."

They sat in amiable silence for a few moments and then Harry's stomach gave a loud, prolonged gurgle.  It sounded like a family of dragons having an argument.

"Hungry, are we?" asked Hermione, amused.  Harry was _always_ hungry.

"What can I say?  Dinner's not happening anytime soon.  I checked."

"Molly kicked you out of the kitchen for filching, didn't she?"

"I was _helping_," said Harry in an injured tone.  "How are they going to know if the pies are any good if no one tests them?"  Harry felt around in his pockets.  "I think I still have . . . yes!"  Triumphantly, he held up a squashed Caramel Bunny.  The half-melted, rabbit-shaped candy wriggled in his grasp sputtering and swearing.  "Want half?"

"No thanks," said Hermione.  "They taste good, but the language sort of puts off my appetite.  And the insults aren't even very creative."

"I know what you mean," said Harry, biting the head off.  "It's all I have, though."  He said this last mournfully.

Wordlessly, Hermione offered her stash of wild strawberries.  They were smaller than the kind in the market, having grown without the benefit of magical enhancement or commercial fertilizer, and slightly tart.  When Harry greedily stuffed three of them in his mouth, she laughed.

Just then, the breeze lifted her hair.  She looked at him, still smiling and her amber hair was haloed in gold as the sun sank on the horizon.  If Harry had had a camera handy, he could have captured this moment.  He didn't, as it happened, but somehow he knew that he would always remember this.  When he was old and toothless – sightless, even, he would still see her exactly as she was now, with laughter in her eyes and fire in her hair, her hands full of strawberries.  Suddenly, he was glad he didn't have a camera.  He tucked the memory away safely.  It would belong just to him, always.

"What are you thinking of, with such a serious look on your face?" asked Hermione.

"This."  He leaned over and kissed her, tasting the sweet juice of the berries on her lips.  "Mmmm."  He brushed a strand of hair back from her face.  "Why didn't we start doing this years ago?"  He always asked this.

"Because we were a pair of young idiots," said Hermione, as she always did.  She pressed a kiss to his throat.  "Thank goodness we eventually figured it out.  We have now."  Rising, she held out her hand to him, and they began walking toward a small stand of trees.

It was darker there, and the air held the pleasant, damp smell of leaves.  As they walked beneath the murmuring branches, hand in hand, Hermione thought she understood now the look she had seen on Penelope Weasley's face as she gazed wonderingly at little pink Percy Jr., for whom tonight's party had been arranged.  Penelope, looking at her son as he waved his tiny determined fists, had been absolutely battered by love.  Battered was the only word Hermione could think of to describe it, and now, walking with Harry, she felt the same.  She felt as if her love for him were an enormous crashing wave, and she, a pebble on the shore.  It left her tossed and helpless and tender.

They stopped beneath a massive silver birch.  The ground beneath it was thickly carpeted with moss.  Kicking off his shoes, Harry drew her down beside him.  She settled into the curve of his shoulder, laying her head against his chest and listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart.

"Are you really glad that we figured it out?" he asked, softly stroking her hair.

"Oh, of course!  Of course I am."

"It's just that . . ." He was going to break a rule here.  They never spoke of these things.  "If we hadn't, everything would be much simpler, don't you think?"

"It would be simpler, yes.  But I don't want that.  I want you."

They were both quiet then, thinking of the moment their lives had changed, and the myriad complexities that had spun forth from it like a beautiful cobweb, shining and fragile.  It had happened on a night very much like this one, at a dinner very much like the one they were about to eat.

***********************************

She was in the garden, sweaty and disheveled, pulling up potatoes to be boiled and mashed.  Hermione was ready to stop, but the bushel basket she had been given was only half full and Molly had been very specific in her instructions.  All the family were coming over and therefore mountains of food were being prepared.  It was to be a dual celebration:  Arthur's promotion and Ron's signing of a lucrative 5 year contract with Puddlemere United.

The potatoes themselves popped readily enough from the small mounds of earth and deposited themselves neatly into the basket with a simple wave of her wand.  The sweaty part was from having to de-gnome as she worked.  Every so often, one of the wrinkled little creatures would spring up and try to make off with a potato.  Then Hermione would grab it, swing it in several wide circles around her head to disorient it, and fling it as far as she could.

The back door swung open and Hermione looked up hopefully.  Perhaps she could recruit whoever it was to help her.  There in the doorway stood Harry, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off his glasses.

"Thought you could use some help," he said, moving through the tidy rows of vegetables with comfortable familiarity.  In the ten years since he had left Hogwarts, the Burrow had become his second home and the Weasleys, his family.

Grunting as she hefted another gnome over her head and sent it sailing off into the distance, Hermione indicated the basket of potatoes which was now nearly full.  "Left it a bit late, haven't you?"  But she grinned, happy as always to see her old friend.

The two of them set to work, and in short order the remainder of the potatoes were harvested and the last of the gnomes dispatched.  They both reached for the potato basket at the same time, and Harry's fingers closed over hers.  Hermione looked down, confused, at his large hand covering her smaller, earth-stained one and felt something half-pleasurable and half-achy give a sharp, short tug inside her.  She looked up into his eyes, which were greener and more unreadable than she had ever seen them.  Abruptly, she released the basket, and Harry carried it into the house.

She went to the upstairs bathroom, to wash up before the guests began arriving, ignoring Ron's good-natured teasing that she was just trying to get out of kitchen duty.  Carefully, Hermione washed the dirt from her hands and fingernails and splashed cool water on her face and neck.  Then she sat on the edge of the tub and shook, and shook, and shook.  Her fingers gripped the chipped porcelain so tightly that the whites of her knuckles showed.

She did not cry, but her eyes were very bright as she trembled with rage and joy.  How could she have been so oblivious, all these years?  Why _him_?  And why _now_?  _Why, why, why_, her mind kept repeating.  She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and wished fervently that she had not looked up from the potatoes to see him smiling crookedly at her from the doorway.  And she cursed the part of her that had lit up like a long-forgotten room, the part of her that was glad.  

Eventually, she stopped shaking and went to the mirror.  Her skin was too pale and her eyes were too bright, almost feverish.  Deftly, she applied cosmetic spells until she felt she was presentable.  Then she went downstairs and took her seat next to her husband, who smiled at her affectionately.

"I've made you a plate, love," said Ron, as he poured her a glass of pumpkin juice.

Across from them sat Ginny and her spouse. "Have one of these, darling, they're lovely," she said as she passed Harry a basket of freshly baked popovers.  "Mum's specialty."

"Thanks, dear," said Harry, helping himself to a roll.  Briefly, his eyes met Hermione's and under the table, his fingers curled, reflexively.  He lifted his glass and raised his voice slightly.  "A toast," he said.  "To Dad and Ron, on their latest triumphs!"

Around the room, a chorus of "Hear, hear!" and "Cheers!" could be heard as everyone saluted the grinning father and son.  It seemed to be, as it had always been, one big happy Weasley family.

****************************

Three days after the potatoes, Harry owled her at work.  Elated and terrified, Hermione met him for lunch in a small café.  That was the beginning.

****************************

Now they sat together on the soft moss in the rapidly fading light, their arms wrapped tightly around each other.

"It was like getting hit with something, that day," said Harry, into her hair.  "We've known each other forever, you, me, and Ron.  Been best friends forever.  I thought I knew everything there was to know about you.  But that . . ." He gestured from himself to her.  "This . . . it came so hard and so fast, I wondered that night if it was some sort of spell, you know, or something like that."

Hermione tilted her head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.  "And do you still think that?"

"No," said Harry.  "This is stronger than magic.  Spells have counter-spells.  Or they come to an end.  They don't last."

"And will this last?"

"For as long as I live," said Harry, softly.  "And beyond that.  Whatever is left of me will continue to love whatever is left of you, for eternity."

Because she could not speak, Hermione kissed him, then, with all the passion and sweetness she possessed.

"Will we tell them tonight?" asked Harry, knowing the answer before she spoke.

"We made promises, you and I, with every intention of keeping them," said Hermione.  "Have we the right to hurt those we promised, simply because we came late to this realization?"

"Do you love him?"  Harry asked, hating himself.

"Yes!  You know I do.  I wouldn't have married him otherwise."  Hermione's voice was thick with tears and her hand lay heavy on his chest.  "Do you love her?"

"Yes," said Harry, because it was the truth.  "I do."

"The way you love me?"  She knew the answer and hated herself for begging this reassurance.

"I have never loved anyone or anything as much as I love you, Hermione," said Harry, waiting until her eyes met his so she would see the truth in them.  "When I realized that I loved you, it was like finding the best part of myself."

"I know," said Hermione.  "Me, too.  And if we hurt the people we love so we can be together, I'm afraid we'll lose that part.  The best part of us."

"If that's what you really believe, then why do you let me do this?"  Harry kissed her, slowly and ardently, until he felt her respond.

"Because I am a coward," she whispered.  "I am not strong enough or brave enough to walk away from you, although God knows I should."

Harry thought of how fiercely she had fought in the war against Voldemort, how loyal and strong a friend she had been.  He thought of how people had called him a hero after he had defeated the Dark Lord, and how he had been lauded for his bravery.  But they were talking now of more important matters.

"I am either a coward or a thief, or both," he said.  "It doesn't matter to me anymore."

And they sank down onto the mossy bed, their hands gentle and urgent.  Their bodies entwined like the roots of the great trees that surrounded them, and when at last, he came into her, it was like coming home.

Later, they smoothed their clothes and plucked the twigs from each other's hair, savoring even this little excuse to be touching.  In a few minutes they would take their places beside their spouses and smile and laugh and eat pumpkin pie.

As they approached the house, Harry slowed to let Hermione arrive first.  She opened the door, letting out the smell of food and sound of conversation, and then she was slipping in among the family and friends, smiling and greeting people.

_We did make promises_, thought Harry, _but they weren't ours to give.  How could we know when we made them that I belonged to you and you, to me?_

And then he went down into the warmth and noise.  The evening had just begun.


End file.
